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Chapter 8: The King of the Dead
(Return toArheled) The weather seemed to be operating on a pendulum. Hot, balmy days alternated with cool, rainy ones, and thunderstorms were a matter of course. The wild roses faded out, but the laurels remained. So school finally ended, freedom and liberty, and he no longer had to pretend to catch the bus and waste all day at the library (if his mom didn’t have work). The first day of vacation was a bright warm morning, the sun dawning hot and misty, with the promise of considerable heat today. “Can you put this out in the mail, Forest?” his dad called as Forest was finishing breakfast. He slipped on his shoes and headed over the bridge. Ronnie Wendy was pedalling by at that moment and came to a staggering halt. “I need new brake shoes.” he complained. “Hello, Forest. How goes it? Any breaking news?” “I saw the Lord of the Cosmos.” said Forest. “That’s very interesting.” muttered Ronnie when he had pried out of Forest a stammering fragmentary account of the dream. “I wonder….” “What are you doing today?” Ronnie hefted a broad-brimmed straw hat from his basket. “Strawberry picking.” he said. “There are pockets all over Mad River Dam. Hey, ask your mom if you can come.” Forest ran back and told Dad he was going on a bike ride. Dad was just setting off for work at that moment, as the College still had a few days of paperwork ahead before the final vacation began for him, and he said fine, but just be back by supper. Bell was going to the beach with yellow-haired Mindy, and the two of them were chattering happily on Split Rock, oblivious of everything. At Ronnie’s advice Forest fetched a baseball cap and sunscreen. “The sun can be pretty fierce.” he said. “You don’t have any.” “Sunscreen? I don’t burn very easily. Besides, I have my hat, my fine silk haaaat…” “I’ll go find a squash to sit on it.” “A great big squash just sat upon my hat,” Ronnie carolled, “a great big squash just squished my hat quite flat! It squished my hat it squished my hat it squished it flaaaat….” “Cuh-cooo.” muttered Forest. They biked up the shore road. The odd shambledown cottages, bungalows and lake houses, built all different times and in all different styles, clustered in a charming confusion one next to another. There were inflatable docks and floating docks, along with moored boats of every shape and size. “I rather envy you, living on Highland Lake.” said Ronnie. “You should call your island Esgaroth.” “Esgaroth upon the Long Lake.” grinned Forest. “I like Wintergreen better.” They passed the beach and boat launch and turned left just before the spillway, following Woodland St. The patch of woods which had once been lake-outlet factories ran along the right. A little level suburb of small square houses and shade trees lay on the left several streets branching off to intersect Boyd in its’ long climb around the unnamed double hill that lay north and west of the lake, between Cobble and Pond Hills. They came to an edge where the street plunged swiftly down, and the abrupt tossing heights of the Cobbles leaped upward, close and nearly in front of them, across a deep sudden valley: the west opening of the horseshoe of the Winsted valley. Down several plunging streets, sometimes walking their bikes, Ronnie led Forest. Old placid tenement houses on the country edge of Winsted lined the roads. They went down Hubbard St and John St, and along the flat Meadow Lane, past pleasant shaded townhouses to the bridge over Mad River and the highway Rt. 44. Ronnie took the old cutoff loop that ran on into the woods above the Nanto Nenlë, but did not descend into the valley. Instead he followed the short section of concrete road until the long gorge of the spillway cut it off. A jeep path climbed on in winding loops up through lovely open woods, granite swells and forest-moss mingling with fern. The road being too rough to bike up, they locked their bikes up at the concrete road and walked up the jeep track. “What you said about the galaxies flowing,” Ronnie said suddenly, “sounds a lot like that ‘dark flow’ I read about once. Or was that in your last letter?” “My letter.” said Forest. “Dad was telling us about it on the lake and I thought it was important.” “I wonder,” mused Ronnie, “whether the galaxies were flowing east or west?” “They…” They couldn’t, because there is no E or W off the earth. “Yes, I know, east and west are relative.” Ronnie said impatiently. “That’s not what I meant. We both know that the World once had a single East and West. Even when the Ilurambar receded to an infinite distance and the universe expanded, that ultimate E and W still exist. What occurred to me is, are the galaxies being pulled toward the Doors of Night…or the Gates of the Morning?” “The Door of Night was in the west.” “And the Sign of Ward’s Hill indicated the star Murzim as the home of the Herald.” “Chelendar had to travel a full age at probably way over light speed to reach the Doors of Night.” “Yes, but what I’m getting at is that the plane of the Milky Way, extended through the universe, might form a sort of ‘horizon’ that corresponds to the surface of the ancient world. The galaxies are following this horizon—this ‘dark flow’. What pulls them, and to what end?” “Murzim might mark true West, you mean?” “And it, like the Great Attractor, lies in the plane of the Milky Way. I wonder…I’ll look up some star charts at the library again.” A break opened in the cliff on the left, and the road forked, one branch descending to the left and the rest climbing upward over a great stony shoulder of land which the spillway had been carven through. The fork plunged steeply down, emerging almost violently into stark white summer sunlight. Here too it forked, curving down to right and left to join a climbing jeep road up the floor of the gorge. Square-cut, with abrupt ragged rock walls, the gorge was maybe a hundred feet across, curving down from the Dike to end below Mad River Falls at the head of the Valley of Voices. “Wow, there’s a good patch right here!” exclaimed Ronnie. The close-cut herbage of the green floor was speckled with red: clusters of wild strawberries growing close together. They were unusually large for wild strawberries: some were nearly an inch, and many were half an inch. Ronnie unscrewed two old mayonnaise jars and put the lids in his backpack, then jammed the straw farmer’s hat on his head. With his lean brown face and brilliant eyes, it had a strange effect, half cowboy and half farmer, and half something else. The sun beat unremittingly down on them as they picked. Berries piled up in the jars with agonizing slowness. Ronnie seemed tireless, pinching the leaf-tops off the berry-crowns and picking more with a sort of concentrated intensity that mimicked patience. Forest was ravenously hungry by the time the patch began to peter away into straggling clumps and finally ended. They each had half a jarful. “Let’s have lunch by the river.” said Ronnie. “You did pack a sandwich like I told you?” “Forgot water.” said Forest. “Ah well, there’s a spring or two down there you can drink from.” It was good to be in the shade again. Ronnie went for a swim but Forest was content to splash his face and arms. They rested on the moss and ate their sandwiches slowly. “Funny thing, I was at the beach last evening in swimming with a girl I’d made friends with, and I was joking about things and laughing, and she thought I was high on something.” Ronnie remarked. “Isn’t that weird?” “They don’t know how to laugh anymore, so they take drugs to remember how.” “It’s pretty sad when the only way they can induce the high spirits of normal men, is to take artificial stimulation and drug themselves to laugh. I mean, normal people when they have fun, can laugh and jest, but so empty and sad are the young folk of Winsted that they have to take drugs to get themselves to laugh.” “It’s pretty scary.” “She wasn’t empty, though,” Ronnie mused, “not Carlee. I liked her. She had a fine keen handsome face and a good-natured, hearty way of laughing. We floated out on tubes, me, her, her boyfriend, and we talked about the stars and the Fish and the signs of the Nine Hills. She’s one of those who can see, although only dimly, but if Arheled called I think she would listen. She lives in Winsted.” Forest made some kind of grunt. “Carlee said an odd thing,” Ronnie murmered, half asleep. “She asked if people fornicate in this water. Not ‘have sex’. Fornicate. I thought I was the last living person to use that word.” “I use it.” mumbled Forest. “So does Bell.” Ronnie seemed to be already asleep. The white and green dapplings on the leaves were so restful that Forest followed suit. It seemed only an hour later when they woke and headed back up the spillway gorge, but the entire gorge was in shadow. It turned out the first patch was the only one on the gorge. They climbed over the big concrete lip that crossed the head of the spillway, and Ronnie found another patch along the edge of the woods. This one had deep grass all through it, which was still blooming in one or two places, but Ronnie and Forest both held their breaths and waited for the yellow dust to settle when they banged into the stalks. “Do you have a girlfriend, Ronnie?” Forest said all of a sudden. “Me? Ronnie Wendy, the creep with scary eyes? Ha ha. No,” and he suddenly looked very weary and very sad, “I don’t. Nor have I ever.” “Why?” Ronnie shrugged. “I ask, and I ask, but I always hear ‘no.’ I just have really bad luck with women. I did actually go on a date, a couple weeks ago—and she turned out to be a witch.” Forest snorted with laughter. “Really?” “She was in Wicca, at any rate. The pretty librarian, down at Beardsley, you know? Nerissa Meritta. I don’t know what made me ask her, or her say yes, but we did. It was a really weird experience.” “I want to hear it.” said Forest. Ronnie’s keen eyes became remote and absent, as if seeing things far away and long ago. “It was June 11th, which by no coincidence turned out to be the Sacred Heart—oh sorry, the feastday on which we celebrate the Sacred Heart of Jesus. A day of great grace and power, Forest. I biked to the library as they were closing. She wore a dress with bright pink and yellow flower-starburst patterns, like a laurel blossom. I rode in her car as we drove off to get gas and then pizza. We had the most fascinating conversations.” He chuckled. “The first thing that emerged was that she was, of all things, a witch. This being a date, she was exploring our religious standpoints and when I said I was a Catholic she said there was no way I’d be allowed to marry her—because she was a witch.” Forest was grinning. “I know,” Ronnie nodded, “I was laughing my head off at my crazy bad luck. She’s not exactly of the worst sort, the necromancers and old lady Filley; she defined herself as ‘white’ and a ‘magic practitioner’. We had a big discussion on the nature of magic and what might have been possible in ancient times, and how the light of the Church has made magic no longer lawful—maybe not even possible now. The things of the darkness, even those that were not evil, have all passed away before the light, unless they could align with it.” “That’s—“ That’s what Arheled was saying. “Yes, I remembered what you told us of his words.” said Ronnie. “I mean, in Ireland the fairies cannot bear to face a priest, yet in Europe we hear tales of fairy godmothers and fairies attending christenings, and getting pretty mad when not invited. Evidently the fays of those lands found a way to meld with the Light.” His voice grew solemn and dreamy. “Now all things have chosen sides that before did not have to, and all who are not upon the side of Christ are against him, and open to if not already under the sway of Hell, and hence I explained the danger of magic and why good men are no longer able to work it. And I then forgot to buckle up, and she whacked me upside the head for it. ‘Anyone who gets in my car and forgets to buckle up gets whacked.’ she said. Of course later I forgot again and got another whack. “We got pizza and I paid for half of it, but she forgot to ask for napkins so we stopped at one of the Burrville stores. I was going to pinch some napkins from the dining tables—it has a deli shop—but she insisted on buying an entire package. Then we parked partway up Burr Mt. Rd—just above Burrville, where the road loops straight up a cliff beside a cascade—and there’s a tiny parking spot at the brink of the descent where a dirt road goes up to Burr Pond. So we walked up that, me laughing and both of us talking. It was late now , almost sunset, and too chill to swim—which put me out a little, but I made the best of it. We ate pizza and talked instead. “There’s a little point, right beside the beach, open and wooded with short sparse little maples and small white pines. Some brush, mostly on the shore, but the rest is turfed with moss and close-cropped grass, picnic tables all around. We sat at a table near the beach. We were the only ones there; it was a Friday evening and cool out. “She told me of some things she’s written, and we talked of ghosts and magic and God, and miracles, and saints, and the Church, and she seemed all this time to be aiming at something or leading up to something, until she told me that she has a gift—she called herself an ‘empath’—a gift for diagnosing and feeling the ailments and sufferings of others. I was filled with this weird Chestertonian impulse to divine levity, and as she was telling me this I led her off among the trees. “Serious subjects should always be discussed with the proper amount of humor and levity.” I said, and swarmed the nearest tree. She had that bright plump smile of hers at my antics. “ ‘Do you think this gift is from the devil?’ she asked me, ‘because when I went to St. Anthony’s long ago they called me demon-child and told me all such things were of Hell.’ “Swinging upside down from the tree, I said, ‘Does it bear good fruit? If it bears good fruit—if the results that come about from using your gift are good—then it is from God; but if it causes bad results, bad fruit, then it is of Hell.’ “I dropped to the ground. ‘It certainly seems genuine and from God,’ I said, mentally asking the Holy Spirit for help, as she had told me the fruits were good; and then I told her about the charisms. You see them sometimes among the charismatics, even among you Protestants: gifts of the Holy Spirit, such as speaking in tongues, or prophecy, or reading of the soul, discernment of spirits—there are many gifts, some very odd ones, like the one Samson got. “ ‘You’re a strange kind of Catholic.’ she said. ‘That’s not what I’ve heard from other Catholics.’ “ ‘Well, then those Catholics must be fools!’ I retorted, convulsing her. ‘That is what the Church is for, to discern between true and false spirits and true and false gifts and to help all men to Heaven, and what a pity many of Her members have forgotten it.’ “ “Wow.” said Forest. “Yeah, I think that made an impression.” agreed Ronnie. “Well, then we ate some cookies I’d saved for the occasion and headed back to the car. She says I’m an ‘earth elemental’, by which she meant I have a kinship with stone and trees and earth. She’s one too. “We drove up the steep ways under Case Mt, back in the south end of Winsted by Pratt Hill, she intending to show me a way into the Robbers’ Caves from above, but she missed the road. “We went up an incredibly steep, narrowing road, and then the pavement ended and we reached the top, and beyond the last house gravel descended onto a tableland upon the back of Case Mt. Then even this ended, and we came out into a dark clearing, sad and gloomy in the evening light. One rugged maple stood up in the middle. The road was dirt, dark marshy earth. We were joking and Nerissa was even laughing, when quite abruptly she went dead still. “ ‘We’re getting out of here.’ she said. “ ‘What’s wrong?’ I protested. “ ‘I’m getting a feeling about this place.’ “Well, I didn’t feel anything eerie about it myself, but she told me she felt it was a departing-point, or a meeting point of evil ways. We backed around and headed up the gravel road. “As we got onto the asphalt, a reddish-cranberry car passed us, heading to the very clearing we had left, and that spooked her even more, for she knew it, and knew the people in it: members of an enemy band of witches. From her talk I learned, Forest, that under the surface of Winsted lurks a subculture of many kinds of dabblers in the occult, who haunt the lovely glens and infest the strange places to work their dark sacrifices. She’s Indian on her mother’s side and Norwegian on the other, and apparently a lot of her relatives are involved with the shamans. Particularly her grandmother. She said it would be really interesting if I and her grandmother met, and in the same breath that it would be something she’d really not want to see. I gathered the old lady is a real witch indeed, not a misled fool like Nerissa. She said that her people, considering themselves ‘white,’ were foes of the necromancers and such, and would preform cleansing spells in the haunts of their foes, ‘to make them safe to walk in.’” “How can Satan cast out Satan.” murmered Forest. “Exactly. She’d seen occult symbols traced on a wall in the Caves, and she’s been on Temple Fell.” said Ronnie. “I told her about what is really there. What causes the strangeness. I hinted in dark words about Arheled and his Road. “We drove up to hike in Rugg Brook area. I showed her the False Tree and she didn’t believe it was false. We parked near the meeting of Rugg Brook Rd with Rt. 44, where the road does a U loop down over Mad River; there’s a parking lot there and a long open mead, a firebreak maybe, or the head of the flood control area. A dirt road goes down it. She dug up a lovely bit of quartz and gave it to me. I told her this was my first date and she didn’t believe me.” he chuckled. “Ronnie, you shouldn’t have accepted a gift from a witch.” reproved Forest. “It was given in good faith as a mark of friendship, Forest, not in hate or the will to harm. The power of a magic or accursed item stems from the will to harm on the part of the giver, linked to the devil as operative principle thereof. I’ve blessed it with holy water, so it’s not dangerous. “We walked past the little marsh, which was actually drained for once. Then we went up a jeep track that climbs up a wooded hill, the feet of Temple Fell rising sudden and mossy on the left. It angles right and runs along level until it joins Rugg Brook Rd. “I decided it was a good time to roast my marshmallows, so I randomly lit a fire from an old beer carton, to her great amusement. When I do things I scramble madly about in utter chaos but I still get them done. She called me a pyro. We toasted the marshmallows and of course they got all over her fingers. But not on mine. It was fun. I was leaving stuff here there and everywhere and then scrambling to move it in my usual crazy way while she laughed at me. “We descended to Rugg Brook Reservoir in the fair clear evening, the sun just having set beyond the Norfolk hills, leaving the west sky aglow in gold. The tall pines along the road as it wends past the blueberry patch and the dam, give it a strange, remote wildness of atmosphere, and with the pink whiteness of laurel and the lush green of fern and tree it has a beauty like no other. It feels Northern. We came to a place where lake-head and valley-dip lined perfectly, dark green hills to either side, so that lake pointed to valley between walls of fringing green, faint lilac clouds above. Pines and pink and faintest purple. “We went on the dam. Nerissa refused to jump off it. I looked across, to where beside the deep canal that drains the bogs west of the lake a laurel in full bloom glowed pink. Not white and pink, but a pink like her dress. I waded the spillway and floundered through the jungle on the far side. “The west shore of the reservoir is a wild secret country. Green, rich and lush, yet tangled and fern-spiced, sphagnum moss soft underfoot and hemlock mixing with pine: jungle, but northern and not at all tropical. The rich complexity harbors a tangled secrecy in its’ very overflowing of growth. The alders, young white pine, hemlock and shrubbery form impenetrable tangles, dead pines rising high above them. I came to the pink laurel and picked it, wading back to where Nerissa stood like a laurel bloom herself against the dark green. I gave her the flower with grave courtesy. We sat and looked at the splendour of the evening lake in silence for a while—about the closest to a romantic moment on that whole wacky date. “As we walked back she asked if I’d ever walked a labyrinth. We went down the hill below the dam as I told her I don’t walk them. “ ‘They’re a journey into yourself to find God at your center.’ she said. “ ‘I’m already in myself,’ I retorted, ‘I see myself all the time. I look out of myself, trapped in my own thoughts. The Christian wants to get out of himself. His journey starts inside him and proceeds outward in search of God. The Christian labyrinth should start at the center—maybe by a covered bridge from the exterior—and find the way out.’ “The utter contrast in our viewpoints made me laugh all of a sudden: it was so much like a pair of Chesterton’s characters, each a personified idea, clashing. I forgot to buckle yet again, this time on purpose to tease her, and she said ‘Forget it, you’ve been warned, you can go ahead and die.’ “That made me think of X from Dark Horse Comics and I started saying, ‘All who are whacked twice die; No one who’s whacked twice lives; this is the law of X!’ We laughed. We drove back. She said she’d had fun. It was a peculiar experience, not exactly ‘fun’, but certainly pleasant and interesting.” “Anything you do is sure to be interesting.” Forest retorted. “But her grandmother: what was she like? Did she say?” “I seem to recall,” Ronnie said slowly, “her describing her as stout, reddish hair with glasses…I can’t seem to remember anything else.” “The Witch of Winchester was stout with glasses, and her hair was kind of red turning grey.” “Oh yes, you saw her last Halloween. That’s eerie. I don’t know what I would say if I met her. Makes me cold just thinking about it.” “It is cooler out.” Ronnie looked around. They were practically done with the patch. As they had picked and he had related his story, the tree-shade had stretched farther as they slowly advanced down the patch and their jars grew heavier. Now the sky above them as glowing red with sunset, and a breeze made the leaves above them murmer and sigh. The heat, and much of the warmth, had gone from the air, and a fresh pleasant coolness came on the wind, smelling of warm grass and forest. As if compelled by powers they could neither see nor feel, Ronnie and Forest rose slowly to their feet, a curious blankness on their faces. They knew they had to get going, and had a long way to go: all other thoughts left them. The pink evening sky slowly faded as they walked down a rent in the steep woods. They came out on the abandoned concrete road, the great Dike rising on their left, the small deep lake where Mad River halted reflecting red and pink the sunset sky. The pinkness died out as they turned their backs to the Dike and walked up the endless road. Mosquitos whined and wailed in their ears. On, on, on. The road climbed up out of the valley, and Ronnie crossed the river on a bridge of a curved section of steel trestle, lying tumbled over as if from a washed-out bridge, yet still spanning the river. On the other side was a narrow grassy jeep track between wild rose that led out into an open firebreak meadow at the rim of the Dike’s flood zone. They headed across this and up a dirt road that climbed into a beech forest: the same one Ronnie had walked with Nerissa. The steep flanks of a high mountain drew near on the left: Temple Fell. But they felt somehow it had no business with them tonight, and walked steadily onward. The dirt road bent right and passed on through the forest, and the gloom deepened under the large oaks. They descended a yellow-baked cut onto a curving asphalt road, and Rugg Brook Reservoir across and below the street glinted through the trees. Walking faster now they came to a fork leading right, and took it, pausing to drink from a spring issuing from an old rusted pipe. The pavement was left behind, replaced with white gravel. This road led them deeper and deeper into the forest, and in the grey gloom the mils suddenly seemed to fold in on themselves, so that it was with a dull surprise that Forest realized they had left the Waymeet of the Three Haunts behind and were partway up Green Lady Rd. Fireflies blinked on and off, spangling the dark woods with a myriad tiny stars. It seemed only a little farther before the Pit of Countless Cans opened on the left, in their strange stupor of mindless walking. The grey dusk was making shapes indistinct; the road was a pale ribbon, featureless and unvarying. So dark was it now they could not see the puddles and frequently plunged ankle-deep in warm soupy water, but still on and up the side road they plodded; and it was as true night slowly settled onto the hills that they sighted the pale round shape of the Skull. The spell dropped from them as if by a bolt of lightning. The eyes of Forest and Ronnie seemed to burn in the gloom as they stared at that stone, the only thing that could be seen at all in the dark forest. What had brought them here? What power had dragged them here, up the many long miles, to this place? Warily they advanced, wading through ferns and invisible dead branches, until they stood beside the rock. “I have been waiting for you.” Unfolding itself from the paleness of the round stone, a greenish-white shape rose slowly to its’ feet. It formed a man of matchless stature, tall and majestic; but the neck ended abruptly at the shoulders. He wore fringed robes and a great white mantle drawn about him, but there was no sign or trace of his severed head anywhere nearby him. His arms were folded. “Who are you?” demanded Ronnie. “Why have you called us here?” “Who are you?” demanded Ronnie. “Why have you called us here?” The phantom laughed, a sad hollow sound that came from the air above his neck. “I am the King of the Dead, O Hill of the Road, and you are here because I say.” “No.” said Ronnie. “We are here for another reason. We are here to demand the release of the Green Lady, whom you hold.” “She shall not be released.” “In the Name of Jesus, she shall be!” The spectre held up a deprecating hand. “Please. You are no priest. You have no authority to utter the only words that can cast me out. You cannot speak the exorcisms. You have no power to compel me.” “But I can call down the Road upon you.” “But will it answer? Is the Warden at your beck and call? Do not the necromancers sacrifice on Temple Fell itself?” “I am the Hill of the Road. I challenge you, O King of the Dead, for the freedom of the Green Lady.” The spirit laughed again. “You were not called here to challenge. You were called here to be enspelled for the jaws of the Father of Dragons.” “You have been challenged. Do you, then, yield your rights?” The King of the Dead had a grim respect in his voice. “Arheled calls his sons well.” he said. “I do not yield. I answer your challenge. What mode shall it take?” “Permit us by riddles to win her release.” The King of the Dead replied, “Do you, then, have knowledge of such breadth you would take on a ghost, and bind yourself to answer whatsoever he may ask? None the less, your challenge is accepted. Answer my riddles, and I will answer yours.” “And if we lose?” A mirthless smile lurked in the hollow voice. “Then I take your heads.” “If this is the only way, we accept these terms.” said Forest. “Ask.” said Ronnie. “And may the Spirit give us wisdom.” The King of the Dead unfolded his arms and spoke: “She is older than he, '' ''but he is her elder; '' ''and he is also she, '' ''but she is likewise he.” '' And Ronnie said, “The Moon was made before the Sun, but the Sun was conquered by the god Apollo, and Urwendi the Lady of the Sun is possessed by him; while Silmo the Moon was cast from the Moon by the goddess Diana. And Apollo is the son of the Planets. Have I answered?” “You have. Now you may ask.” And Ronnie said, '' “I saw a peacock with a fiery tail, '' '' I saw a crimson sky droppit down hail.” '' The ghost frowned. “The peacock is no cock, but a Phoenix, who flies out of the mouth of the vanishing of Daslenga. '' '' ''“Where is the place '' ''that I passed before '' ''and a chain of speckled fire? '' ''That place was bright, it hurt my sight '' ''and that did rouse my ire.” '' '' '' And Ronnie said, “That is the River Daslenga, for angry is he; and Daslenga flows eternally in the country of the Gods, but the sign of Daslenga he flows through the stars, and the Mad River of Winsted is linked mystically to him. ''“I saw a Venice glass 16 foot deep, '' ''I saw a well full of men’s tears that weep '' ''I saw their eyes all in a flaming of fire.” '' And the ghost answered, “The well of burnt tears is buried and lost, but though all try to hide it it is doomed to be found.” “You are riddling in your answer. Is this your next riddle, or do you not know the answer?” “One assumes the asker knows the answer to his own riddle. But lest you claim victory, I will speak plainer. It is buried in the Lost Caves.” “I agree that you have answered. Now ask.” And the ghost said, '' '' ''“Why do they veer '' ''from the vended way '' ''those dancers fine and fair? '' ''Their gowns are gauze, '' ''and glister-jewelled '' ''and still they step unsteered.” '' '' '' And Ronnie answered, “Those are the galaxies, and they veer as they flee outwards because the way of the Road draws them aside. ''“There was a man of double deed '' ''who sowed his garden full of weed…” '' '' '' “That man was the Prince Angar, who sowed dissension in the Stars, and he was of double deed for he let into his heart the lord of Chaos. '' '' ''“What is that shape '' ''so shaken firm, '' ''that was flat, then round, then rolling?” '' Ronnie gave him a wary look. Forest, afraid Ronnie might answer wrong, said quickly, “The Field of Arda was created flat, but then globed, and now both rotates and orbits.” The King of the Dead turned slightly towards the boy. “That was a wise response.” he said in an interested tone. “You may ask.” Ronnie nodded to Forest, and Forest, suddenly tense, said, “What is the reason the Road chose the Fell?” '' And the ghost answered, “Because this was the heart of the land long ago, and upon that very hill did the Trees of Gold and Jewel once grow. '' “What is the sign of the simple way '' That shunts aside the stars? '' ''What is the name of the sign of the Road?” '' '' '' And Ronnie said, “A fish is the sign, for the Fish rules the Night, yet the Fish is bound into the stone and cannot free himself. '' '' ''What is that one '' ''who was live before '' ''and hunted through the stars? '' ''His vessel was silver, and bore a bloom: '' ''What is the fate of the Lord of the Moon?” '' '' '' “He fell to earth upon his back and became the mountain known ever after as Prone Man. '' '' '' '' ''“They had a home '' ''Who now are gone '' ''And hated humans '' ''yet hunt beside them. '' ''Who are they and whence?” '' '' '' Ronnie said nothing. Forest looked at him in alarm. The ghost bent slightly forward. All at once Ronnie’s eyes gave a faint reddish sheen, and he said, “The land we stand upon was once embedded across the world, until the Bending tore it loose and sealed it here. And the people who inhabited it had silver hair, and they hunted beside the Morkû when they made the Stone of Death. Now answer this: '' '' '' '' ''“Gold it gleams yet is no gold '' ''Nor any woven metal; '' ''One thing alone do it and gold '' ''hoard and share with all.” '' '' '' “The hair of the Houldu-folk was gold in one people and silver in the other; and these hold in common with metal only their hue and beauty. What they share with all is their glory of light and color. ''“The dragon-doors '' ''of darksome Night '' ''stand eternally silent. '' ''Yet one word will '' ''those portals open: '' ''what is that secret word?” '' '' '' Forest surprised himself by answering, and even more by the clear bell-like tone of his voice. '' “Arheledenvendonwendo '' is the word that will open the dragon-headed doors. '' '' '' '' ''“The dragons deem them dreadsome gods '' ''yet they themselves are held in bonds: '' ''To whom bow they, who bow the East? '' ''Who is the master of their feast?” '' '' '' And the ghost said, “Chaos is the master of the Father of Dragons, for it was by his command that he took that form and it was with him that he bred the race of Dragons. Now answer this: '' '' '' “This word makes yawn '' ''the Doors of Night: '' ''but gibberish is it to sight '' ''yet in it meaning may be sawn.” '' '' '' And Ronnie said, “The answer is that the word, ''Arheledenvendonwendo, is not gibberish but has meaning, and that meaning is: By the life of the way of the lofty-noble crystal. Now tell me this: '' who was it that forced the Warden to declare his own name?” '' To their amazement the ghost visibly hesitated. They waited, breath drawn. Suddenly he spoke, and there was a grim smile in his voice. “When the Six were called to Temple Fell, Ronmond it was whose challenge caused the Warden to name himself Arheled. Now since we seem to be uttering hard questions instead of riddles, answer this: '' “What is the word that the Sun utters each day at the Gates of the Morning?” '' Ronnie burst out laughing. “That’s a trick question. She no longer utters that word, for she no longer passes through the Gates. “What name does she bear, who sails the morning? '' ''What does she fear, who forever is mourning?” '' And the ghost replied, “Her name was Urwendi, but Apollo holds her now and him does she fear. '' '' ''“One thing she said, who sailed the morning '' ''One word she spoke as she passed one way: '' ''What was the word that she uttered each day?” '' '' '' Then Ronnie said, “That word was the same as at the Doors of Night, but it was reversed: '' Odnewnodnevnedelehra. Now answer me this: “In stone he sleeps, is yet a sign '' ''Though dead he be he shall unwind '' ''In twofold places and two names: '' ''Who is he, and why his sign?” '' And the King of the Dead answered, “He is the lord of the Nine and the holder of their ring, and he is asleep in stone though he rules the Night. '' What is the name of the Lord of the Cosmos?” '' Ronnie was silent. He opened his mouth once or twice and closed it. The King of the Dead leaned forward, his headless form gleaming with a fierce light. Forest’s head fell back. His mouth worked, bulging as if expelling something; and out of it came gigantic sounds, huge syllables and chunks of sound that tore out of his throat. ''“Mânawenûz!!!” Before the King of the Dead could say anything, Ronnie interjected, “You stand before us without your head, '' ''What did you do to wind up shed? '' ''What is the sin of the King of the Dead?” '' And the ghost frowned, but he answered, “The King of the Dead once ruled in the living, and he desired victory over his enemies and great power besides. And he worked a magic rite that drew his foes to the mound that covers the secret, and in the name of what lies there did he slay all that night, taking off their heads and laying them on the mound; and this is the sin of the King of the Dead. ''“You seek to free her, fair and green '' ''Yet her own name to you is unseen '' ''How can you face her and not her greet? '' ''What is the name of the Woman in Green?” '' '' '' And Ronnie answered, “Elizabeth Palmiter is the name of the human ghost who haunts the other cemetery of the Green Lady. The ghost you hold bound up here is not a woman, but a ''lenna. '' '' “A tree, a host, a mongrel crew '' ''One alone was not of them '' ''All winked shut and slept from men '' ''Who is that one and what its’ name?” '' '' '' The ghost’s voice was grimly amused. “She stands by the grave of Mary Croft, because her own name is ''Maricrondo, and she is of the daughters of the Stars. '' '' “The mountain stands beneath the moon '' ''Yet it has feet, and knees, and shoon '' ''We know this hill, we know not how: '' ''What is he whose name we know?” '' '' '' And Ronnie answered, “The Wild Man of Winsted is Mid-Venda, and his nature is drawn from the mountain that he guards. ''“The blue unblue is live and dead '' ''For once it stood and had a head '' ''Or so we guess, we cannot tell: '' ''What is the cause of the shape of the Skull?” '' '' '' And the ghost answered, “When the last of the Giants was fighting with the Gods, he was slain by the cast of the Hammer of the Gods, and his head flew like thunder from off of his shoulders, and it fell here, and stone it became. '' '' ''“This witch wears white and is a sight '' ''What others flee she has no fright '' ''What others seek shall make her shriek '' ''And in the end pay for her peek.” '' '' '' And Ronnie answered, “She is human at the moment, though not long shall she be; for she is doomed to be consumed by the hunger of a wight. ''“Why does the King of the Dead have on no head?” '' And the King of the Dead answered, “Because he took off the heads from all that he slew upon the Battle Mound, his own was taken from him when he was appointed by the Nine as the King of the Dead. ''“She has a name, but has no name '' ''What others call her be her shame '' ''Of old she lived and lives on still: '' ''and in the stone seat saw her fill.” “Are you asking who she is, or what her name is?” Ronnie said. “Because both are known to me.” “Her name, then.” “Filley is the name of the Witch of Winchester, for she forsook her Christian name when she became a witch, and no record of it remains. '' Why is there no rest within your breast?” '' “Because it bears no head.” answered the ghost. “That is no riddle. I grant you a second try at a riddle. If you cannot think of one, I claim victory.” A terrible smile crossed Ronnie’s face. “What is the thing that is all that the King of the Dead can say?” '' The white ghost hesitated. His form began to flicker. Doubt, frustration, and mounting rage shimmered in his apparition. Long moments passed. “Do you have the answer?” Ronnie pressed. White and green fire spouted up from the Skull, wreathing the ghost, as he grew huger, tossing his arms aloft with a howl of fury and defeat. '' “Go!” '' the King of the Dead roared. ''“You have won the riddle-game! I free the Green Lady. Go, and take your heads away from here!"''Ronnie and Forest whirled and hurried away. In the dark forest it was impossible to run, but they walked as quickly as they dared. Branches scratched their faces and they collided with logs and the occasional rock. Whenever they looked behind them they could still see the Skull, glowing now so bright with the rage of the King of the Dead that they could see it like a beacon, towering over the forest. “We’d better get out of here before somebody calls the police.” said Ronnie. A pale ribbon suddenly appeared as they stumbled into an open space: the Green Lady road. “I don’t like it.” said Forest, looking back at the pillar of greeny-white flame and lightning shooting up from the Skull. “It’s too much like a signal.” “Of course it is.” said Ronnie. “You think he was serious about letting us go? That’s a distress call.” He looked behind them and cursed. From the direction of the cemetery headlights were coming, wavering and bouncing: the lights of a car driven at top speed up a bumpy road. “Sightseers from the Green Lady Cemetary.” he muttered. “Wait. I have an idea, Forest. Stay invisible. I might be able to beg a lift.” The lights drew rapidly nearer. Ronnie walked into the middle of the road and threw out his hands in the most compelling dramatic gesture of ''stop that Forest had ever seen. The SUV hit the brakes so hard it skidded on the gravel. In his straw farmer’s hat Ronnie looked, in the headlights, not unlike some bizarre apparition himself. The driver and his passengers piled out as Ronnie ran up. There were two men around 30 and a girl half that, though she was so made up in Goth style with heavy black mascara it was hard to tell. All of them were dressed Goth, black and silver clothes with fluttering strips and metal jewelry everywhere. Metal jewelry with occult symbols and shapes. They were babbling like crazy as they pointed to the beacon, while Ronnie was babbling back in the same mannerism that they really didn’t want to know, that it was scary-bad stuff and they had to get out fast cause the cops were coming. “Cops?” bawled the driver. “Well, get in, man! Let’s get crackin!” Ronnie scrambled into the back, Forest squeezing next to him on the right door side so that the girl pressed against Ronnie on the other side. There was a queer stuffy reek of pot and beer and something queerer, like incense. Forest kept his eyes down and was, so far as the others knew, not even there. “So, like, what was that, anyway?” the driver shouted over the car radio. “We were over at the Buryin’ Ground tryin’ to see the Green Lady, we even tried a séance, but we couldn’t raise nuthin’, no EVPs, no green lights, and then this beacon—“ Ronnie glanced at Forest, who was frowning at the floor. The glance showed him something else out the window: the glow of flashing red and blue, far off still, a mere halo around corners, up Preston Av to the right. They had reached the intersection. “Parking lights only!” he barked. “Douse the headlights! Cops on the right! Go straight!” “OMG, this is so crazy-mad!” the girl was squealing. The driver turned off his headlights and in the yellow glow of the parking lights they plunged down the steep curving hill and came to the Waymeet of the Three Haunts. Ronnie made the driver park and kill all the lights while they waited. The sinister flickering of red and blue flashers faded slowly above the ridge, black against the green-white beacon still beating up from the distant Skull. Ronnie gave the “all clear” and, still using parking lights, they drove on down Old Waterbury Rd towards Rugg Brook Rd. Once a police helicopter thundered by some distance on the right, making them kill all the lights again. Ronnie told them of the King of the Dead—an edited account—as they pulled onto Rugg Brook Rd. Sirens grew louder and four police cars wailed by in succession, one after another, all going down the way they had left. Upon the top of the ridge the rotating column of ascending fire, green and white mingled, shed a light like a second and ghastlier sun. The mighty figure of the King of the Dead stood underneath it, his great sword drawn. There appeared with a crash of red and gold fire a creature huge and serpentine, a brilliant gleaming red, and two immense wings of gold were folded on his back, and on long and snakelike necks seven heads craned and peered about in every way. “I see the beacon, Ouleout.” the monster said in a voice like scorched thunder. “But I do not see the cause.” “Do not play the fool, Father of Dragons.” answered the ghost. “The Green Lady is freed. Two of the Sons of the Road were here. They cannot be far off.” “You were supposed to hold them for me. Are your spells so powerful as to summon them here, and so weak they cannot hold them when they come? And why is the Green Lady free?” “Have you forgot in your years walking as man the rules by which I reign?” the headless ghost’s voice, dripping with scorn, made answer. “They challenged me. They won the challenge. By the rules, I had to let them go. So I lit the beacon to call you, that you may apprehend them ere they get too far.” “I do not see them.” answered the Father of Dragons. “The only humans that stir in this forest are a carload of necromancers interrupted in their arts. They run howling of ghosts and of cops. I think your captive Star has removed her rescuers.” “She is a ghost!” snapped the King of the Dead. “While the Stone of Death is whole, she can never be anything else!” “Temper, temper, Headless Horseman.” laughed the Father of Dragons. “If they are still in the forest, my servants will find them. But it is not important. I know who they are, and I can nab them when I please.” A speculative gleam entered the burning yellow eyes. “And as far as that goes….the freeing of the Star may yet be to our advantage. “Douse the lighthouse. Let another ghost story add itself to the ones that already float about this place.” A rather sober carful of eccentrics disembarked at the abandoned loop road beneath the Nanto Nenle. They shared a beer with Ronnie as they continued talking, while Forest, unseen, sat under the trees and swatted mosquitos. “So, you mean this King of the Dead guy was holding the Green Lady prisoner?” the driver was saying. “That’s so creepy. I didn’t know ghosts could do that.” “Yeah, it’s messed-up, dude. Well, thanks for the lift, man. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t come along.” said Ronnie in his best ghetto imitation. The girl shyly waved and goodbyes were said all round, and then they had driven off. “That was a strain.” said Ronnie. “Aided in escaping the police by a pack of necromancers.” muttered Forest. “I don’t think we should have gone with them.” “They were covering us.” Ronnie answered. “If the King of the Dead—or whoever he was calling to—cast his eyes abroad, he would see only magicians and dismiss them from his mind. It was no chance that put them there, Forest. We’d better go. There’s a long ride ahead, and I don’t know what your folks are going to think. They’re likely worried sick. I’ll call ahead from the gas station.”